by S. D. Sykes
His mouth dropped further. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, my Lord,’ he stuttered. ‘But I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Who knows that you sleep in here?’ I asked.
He gave a cough. ‘Well, nobody really,’ he said. ‘You see, I was told to sleep in the Great Hall with the other servants. But I find that room so cold.’ He took off his hat, shook it and then replaced it upon his head. ‘And I like to keep an eye on my belongings. These costumes cost me a lot of money, you see.’
‘So the murderer might not have known you were nearby?’
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ he said with another gulp. ‘No. I suppose not.’ And then something seemed to catch his eye. For a moment he looked over my shoulder into the hallway behind me.
I turned around sharply, gazing into the empty passageway. ‘What are you looking at?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all, my Lord.
‘Was somebody there?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ he said, now screwing up his face. ‘I just saw a rat running across the stones.’
I wandered out into the passageway to see if I could spot the scurrying rodent, but the creature had disappeared – assuming that it had existed in the first place. When I returned to the doorway of this enlarged cupboard, The Fool was jittery to say the least. He had retreated back into the shadows. ‘Are you afraid of something?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
I hesitated. ‘If you know something, then you should tell me.’
‘I don’t know anything at all,’ he said. ‘I was asleep all last night. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything.’
This sounded final, but I waited for a while longer, giving silence the chance to do its work. But this man was not going to cave in to such an obvious tactic.
‘Very well,’ I said at length. ‘I will see you at Lord Hesket’s burial.’
I quickly ascended the short flight of stairs to the stables and then hid behind a pillar, wanting to see if The Fool’s mystery ‘rat’ would creep out from his hiding place, now that I had departed. I waited for a few minutes, hoping to catch them both out, but nobody appeared. All I could hear was a loud sobbing coming from The Fool’s cupboard, followed by the unmistakable sound of hard objects hitting the wall.
I dashed back and flung open the door, to find that he was beating the walls with his hobby-horse. The creature’s grinning head hung forlornly from its stick.
‘What are you doing?’ I shouted.
The Fool crumpled into a pile on the floor, throwing the hobby-horse to one side. ‘I am frightened, Lord Somershill,’ he sobbed. ‘So frightened.’
‘Why?’
He looked up at me as if I were mad. ‘Why do you think?’ he said, with sudden aggression. ‘I didn’t come to this castle to die.’
‘Who says you’ll die?’
He threw back his head, causing the ridiculous hat to fall from his head. ‘We will all die, Lord Somershill. You know that, as well as I. Either the Plague will take us, or . . .’
‘Or what?’ I said, lunging forward and grasping him by the tunic. ‘Or what?’ For a moment he looked at me with confrontational eyes, and I thought he might retaliate with a punch or a kick, but then his courage faded. ‘If you know something,’ I said, tightening my grip, ‘then you must tell me. For all our sakes.’
He shook his head feebly in response. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he mumbled. ‘Nothing at all.’
Chapter Twenty
It was late in the afternoon when we buried Hesket, and though we wanted to pay him every respect, we also wanted to get back inside the castle walls before the light disappeared. The day had been unusually clement, but, from our elevated position in the graveyard, we could see the storm approaching across the marsh. In the far distance, rain was sweeping across the sea in long, oscillating sheets, and a bitter wind was beginning to bite.
I had left my wife and son in our apartment, as Filomena had confided in me that she felt pains in her lower back – the same feeling that she’d experienced the last time we had lost a child. She assured me there was no bleeding yet, but I could see that she feared this conclusion.
Mother was not fooled by my story that Filomena was tired, however. She sidled up to me at the graveside, while Old Simon made his last incantations above Hesket’s coffin. ‘I do think that Filomena should have joined us,’ she whispered. ‘It’s rather disrespectful, don’t you think? Lord Hesket was a very important man.’
‘I told you earlier,’ I said. ‘Filomena’s not well.’
Mother altered her expression into one of exaggerated concern. ‘Oh dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘She’s not losing the child, is she?’
Was there any possibility of keeping a secret from this woman? ‘She’s just tired, Mother,’ I said. ‘There is no child.’
She gave one of her knowing smiles. ‘Of course there is, Oswald,’ she said. ‘For the time being at least.’
I felt a flare of anger – so strong that I could have pushed her into the open grave. Thankfully the conversation ended as The Fool struck up a very mournful hymn on his citole, ‘To Death, we stride’, as our cue to start filling the pit with soil.
I was helping Mother to negotiate the slope on our return to the castle, when a short scream rang out behind us. Turning around, I could see that Lady Isobel had fainted, and that Robert of Lyndham was kneeling beside her. Lady Emma stood to one side of this tableau, with both hands covering her eyes.
I rushed to Lyndham’s side. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Lyndham, with the back of his palm to Isobel’s forehead. ‘I heard Lady Isobel say that she saw somebody hiding in the trees over there.’ He pointed towards the copse in the distance.
I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘Was it the Dutchman?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lyndham anxiously. ‘I was standing behind them, and couldn’t hear what she was saying exactly. She was speaking to the child.’
I looked at Lady Emma and tried to decide whether or not to attempt a conversation. The girl was still frozen to the spot with her hands over her eyes, and appeared even less disposed than ever to nodding or shaking her head in response to a list of questions. Instead, I asked Lyndham to join me and we quickly ran across the open field and then entered the nearby copse, hoping to catch Hans hiding behind a tree.
There was an eerie silence to the wood, without even the twittering of bird song, and I will admit that the place unnerved me at first. I was not alone in feeling this way, as I caught Lyndham turning constantly to check if there was somebody on his shoulder. We split up after a while, each going in separate directions, and it was then that I saw her. The young girl with the cleft lip. She was cowering against a tree, dressed in a very long cloak that must have belonged to her mother.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘They are all dead,’ she said with a whimper. ‘Everybody in my family.’
‘Was it plague?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘I don’t know where to go,’ she sobbed. ‘Nobody will help me.’
I felt a great pity bear down upon me. A child with such a disfigurement would be shunned by the other villagers at the best of times. But now her situation was even more desperate. She had been living in a plague house and would never be given refuge. ‘How old are you?’ I asked.
‘Eight,’ she said.
I groaned inwardly, for I could not leave an eight-year-old girl in this forest – and yet I could not take her back to the castle with me. I was about to speak to her, but when I looked up, she was stumbling towards me, nearly tripping over the long cloak. ‘Stay there!’ I shouted instinctively. ‘Don’t come any closer.’ She stopped still and began to cry. ‘Listen to me,’ I said, now trying to speak more gently. ‘I can help you. But you must do as I say.’
She nodded between shudders.
‘Do you have a cough?’ I said.
She shook her head.
‘What about a fever?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I stayed away from the sick. Just as you told me to.’
I rubbed my hands over my face, anxiously trying to think of a solution. ‘I know. You can stay in the Eden family chapel,’ I said. ‘There is a stream in this forest for water, and I will drop some bread for you each day at dusk.’
‘Where will you drop it?’ she asked.
I thought quickly. ‘From the parapet walk near to the north tower. To the island side of the gatehouse. Do you know where I mean?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘But you must not approach the castle until it’s dark, in case the others see you. And you cannot come inside. Not for at least six days,’ I said. ‘Do you understand that?’
She nodded again, though she continued to look at me with such a sorrowful, desperate expression on her face, that I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself.
‘I have to be sure that you’re not infected,’ I explained. ‘Once I’m certain of this, then I will allow you to join us.’
‘I understand,’ she whispered.
‘Then wait until we have all gone back through the gatehouse, and hide in the chapel. I will drop the bread later.’ I paused. ‘And tell me your name?’
‘It’s Annora,’ she said.
I paused again. ‘Have you seen anybody else in this wood, Annora?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Were you watching the burial before?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been hiding by this tree all the time.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ She nodded firmly. ‘Very well then,’ I said, backing away. ‘Follow my instructions, Annora. And I can help you.’
I did not mention the girl to Lyndham when we met again. Neither of us had discovered any sign of Hans, so we returned to the funeral party, finding that Lady Isobel had regained consciousness after her fainting fit and was now being comforted by Old Simon and Sandro. The old man limply held her hand, whilst my valet fanned her face with my mother’s psalter.
‘The woman is pretending to be ill, of course,’ whispered Mother, as she sidled up to me. ‘She’s doing it for attention.’
‘Is that so?’ I said, resisting the urge to point out that this was one of her own areas of expertise.
Before Mother could reply, I knelt down beside Lady Isobel, making sure to keep my conversation private. ‘We couldn’t find the Dutchman, my Lady. Are you sure he was there?’
Her skin was ashen. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, before burying her face in a pair of trembling hands. ‘I thought it was Hans, but I’m so disturbed today, Lord Somershill. I thought I could see him looking out at me through the trees.’ She sobbed. ‘But perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me? The devil killed my husband and now I fear that he will come for me.’
I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It was Old Simon. ‘Speak to Lady Isobel later,’ he said. ‘This poor woman has just buried her husband. Give her some time to recover.’ I went to respond, but he glared at me. ‘It is cold out here,’ he said. ‘No place for one of your interrogations.’
‘Let’s get Lady Isobel inside the castle,’ said Lyndham, as he offered his hand and helped her to stand. She rose to her feet, but her legs gave way again and she would have fallen, had Lyndham not caught her in his arms. It was a few moments before she regained consciousness and angrily instructed Lyndham to let her go.
It was an awkward moment, only heightened when The Fool started strumming on his citole, choosing this moment to play the song he had composed himself – the musical fabliau that had upset Lady Emma so badly on the night of our first supper together. At least The Fool had the sense not to accompany this tune with its coarse lyrics, but Lady Emma recognised the song well enough, and reacted by roaring like a caged baboon.
Amazingly this was not enough to persuade The Fool to stop playing – for it was only when he received a hefty shove in the back and loud reprimand from Lyndham, that he finally dropped the citole to his side and ran back towards the castle, as if he had been stung by a bee. By now Lady Emma was lying on the grass and thumping at the soil in a rage. When Alice Cross tried to calm the child, Emma fought back with a violence I had seldom seen in somebody so young. Our steward was a strong woman with a pair of hefty arms and a powerful grip, but even so, she was no match for this girl. With a bite and a kick, Lady Emma freed herself from our steward’s grasp and hurtled across the field towards the woodland.
It was Sandro who chased after Emma, catching up with the girl before she darted between the trees and disappeared for good. He held her tightly, while she continued to kick and punch, until eventually the force of her anger subsided and she calmed down, allowing Sandro to release her from his embrace. For a while, they stood together, as Sandro held her hand in his.
‘What’s happening?’ said Lady Isobel, still dazed from her fainting fit. ‘Where’s Emma? Is she safe?’
It was Lyndham who answered. ‘The child was upset, my Lady. She ran off towards the trees.’
‘Has somebody caught her?’
‘Yes,’ said Lyndham. ‘The Venetian boy.’ The knight then strained his eyes to look into the distance. ‘Emma is calm now, and they seem to be talking.’
‘Talking?’ said Lady Isobel, and I sensed a change of tone in her voice – the fragility replaced with indignation. ‘Emma doesn’t talk to anybody.’
I turned from Isobel and Lyndham to see Sandro leading Emma back across the field towards us. The girl had one hand in Sandro’s and the other lifted to her mouth so that she could suck her thumb like an infant. She reminded me instantly of Hugh, though my son was more than eight years her junior.
As she and Sandro returned to the party, Lady Emma would not look up at our faces, and would not take her stepmother’s hand when the woman offered it. Instead, she walked towards the gatehouse in silence, only allowing Sandro to walk beside her.
‘Emma seems fond of your valet,’ observed Lady Isobel, her arm now linked with mine for support.
‘Sandro has a way with children,’ I said lightly. ‘He’s very good with Hugh. Always thinking of games and amusements to distract the boy.’
Lady Isobel looked at me blankly, and I wasn’t certain that she realised whom I was talking about. Perhaps she had never even noticed that I had a son. ‘Emma is very upset at her father’s death,’ she said instead. ‘I feel it’s best if she stays in seclusion for a while now.’ I went to respond, but she removed her arm from mine. ‘The child is easily agitated,’ she said. ‘You saw that yourself earlier. She suffers from uncontrollable rages.’
‘But perhaps some distraction might help?’ I suggested. ‘A game or two with Hugh and Sandro might balance Emma’s humours.’
She sniffed at this suggestion and was consequently forced to wipe her nose with her fingertips. This caused her some embarrassment, so she did it quickly – almost hoping that I wouldn’t notice. ‘No games,’ she said, turning away. ‘Not yet, anyway. Let Emma settle for a few days. Solitude will assist her disposition.’
‘Solitude seems rather harsh,’ I argued. ‘Especially as the girl has just lost her father.’
‘Emma must learn to control her temper. Even in such terrible circumstances as these. She must not be indulged.’
‘Well, she is your stepdaughter, Lady Isobel,’ I said tersely, unable to disguise my opinion of her methods.
She turned on her heel to face me again. ‘I consider Emma to be my actual daughter, Lord Somershill. So I trust you will respect my wishes.’
I regarded her for a while – not believing for one moment that she considered Emma to be her true daughter. Even so, I could not argue with the woman’s wishes. She was the girl’s guardian now, and would rule the unfortunate child’s life.
We returned to our quarters to find that Hugh had been entertaining himself by making a tent from a bed sheet and draping it between two chairs. He rushed to greet us as the door opened, and then sped out of the room like a cow release
d onto grass in the spring. Filomena was lying in bed. Her face was pale and her hair was loose and untidy. A bucket beside the bed contained a few dribbles of bile. But vomit was better than blood, we both knew that.
When I had stoked up the fire and poured Filomena a mug of ale, I drew up a chair to her bedside and then described the events of the funeral. My tale of the hunt through the forest for Hans, followed by Lady Emma’s tantrum, brought some colour to Filomena’s cheeks at least, though I decided not to mention my meeting with Annora.
‘What was Emma saying to Sandro?’ she asked me.
I had already quizzed Sandro on this subject, but his answer had not been particularly illuminating. ‘He said it was nonsense. Just a string of words that didn’t make sense.’
‘At least she spoke to him,’ said Filomena. ‘That’s a good sign.’ She then let out a yawn.
‘Has Hugh worn you out?’ I asked.
‘Yes. A little. But he has so much energy, Oswald. He exhausts me. Particularly at the moment.’ Instinctively she placed her hands upon her stomach.
I paused. ‘No blood?’
‘No.’ She took my hand, and then spoke to me softly. ‘Please don’t worry.’
I lifted her fingers to my lips. ‘I’m sorry, Filomena,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry that I brought you and Hugh here.’
‘Don’t be gloomy, Oswald,’ she said. ‘We are safe now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hans has fled the castle, of course. The murderer has gone.’
I tried to smile. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right,’ I said.
She clasped my hand. ‘You know that I am.’
Should I have told her my fears? If the Dutchman could leave the castle without being detected, then it meant that he could also return.
I kept my promise to Annora. That night, I climbed the steps to the parapet walk, looked about to make sure that nobody was watching me, and then dropped a small loaf of bread and a lump of hard cheese in a length of sacking. I heard the package land in the long grass below with a light thump, as the shadowy figure of a young girl scurried across the grass and grabbed my meagre offering with the desperation of a starved animal. I didn’t feel generous or noble, instead I felt as if I were throwing meat to a pack of foxhounds. My only consolation was the thought that the girl would be able to join us inside the castle when this period of isolation was over. After her six days in the chapel, I would consider her free of plague. It was one good deed at least.
